Wednesday

"What inspires? Each time is harder to answer the question because necessities and motivations are before feelings, and pleasure confuses humans. Actually, not even the obligations but the possibility of getting out of them and receiving an immediate reward. In the middle of a civilization week, Wednesday, surviving the next two days to make it to the weekend is motivational but not inspiring. However, the beliefs and the artists.  She often thought about what would happen if he found her on a day like today, Wednesday out of the blue. Surely, he would remember everything that happened after she left him. He would remember how she had changed him for another and today, after so many years, older, fatter and uglier, but especially with more years, she would receive all that hatred that he kept, surely. Other times, especially when she wasn't alone, she thought she would see him miserable, insignificant. Old, fat and defeated. While she was beautiful, well, a little fat and perhaps with years that would make her look like a mature and desirable woman, even when she was with someone next to her. Wednesday, and she would feel sympathy and laughter, too, if she had changed him at that moment, for he was a good fellow. Just once, she thought of the love she felt for him and he for her. Only that time did he think of the joy of being able to see him without bringing the pain and motivations of that past. But if in what not only inspired her at one time, but also him.

Inspiration. Despite the contradictions and realities, that feeling feeds persistence. Not the patience. Understanding inspiration and distinguishing it from ambitions or valuing it beyond motivation is not easy in a world of scale and monetization. Is the artist really understood, the one who can only hate, and live in convenience? How can someone understand that trace, those words, the melody, that need to exalt the nakedness of body and soul, if that gaze does not shine? What do you know about inspiration if you have not crossed the threshold of perseverance to reach insistence? He told him from time to time in front of the mirror, in that safe solitude, in which he could not be accused of harassment or detachment. Yes,  the days are strange and the solitude seemed to be the best to survive. Sometimes it seemed unbearable and more so when you got older and had come to love, motivate and be inspired. But, the safety of loneliness was enough when he remembered how lying on the ground, he could only see the gray sky above him. Defeated. He felt no compassion for himself, just calm.

So, for some humans (not necessary artists or romantics), the inspiration is possible as a consequence of love. In a certain degree, more than the motivation for pleasure or compassion, the persevarence shows the importance of someone. However, it is difficult to understand the value of the inspiration, including educated or rational people. It may be due to the habit of the quick prize and the expected profit after the reasoning. Sometimes he fled from that rationality of his main social role. Some thirty emails, tasks to do and prestige (of course), did not generate enough pressure for him to put aside his reading and writing. He imagined how she was searching in the midst of her writings for what she could legally sue him for succumbing to his inspiration. That generated a certain adrenaline rush at times, but also sadness. -If I had motivated her enough, both of them would have overcome their fears and hatred. Would be wonderful. But it wasn't. Nor will it be. - He wrote.

Thinking too much about that past is not good for inspiration. and although the future motivates, it is now, real, that inspires. In the real, that inspiration is not a yearning maintained at the point of possibilities, but rather forecasts. Consequences but not a destiny, an idea but not idealization. The idea of exception and exhalation of the feelings to be better. the purpose that guarantees persistence and confidence. It is a concept more than a definition but always allows an answer. He wanted to sleep. He was tired of another Wednesday without an answer from her, despite the fact that she knew of his existence and his insistence. It was a lie that he had no pretension. But what was true was that he couldn't have it. Everything depended on her. And she was really doing something else, because for now she didn't need it. Sometimes yes, and that's when it appeared. But only for a few moments. The were very hard and sad moments, so much so that the nostalgia she felt for him quickly turned into hatred. And he? he just wanted to think less and less of her."

Lunes

"¿Cuantos ciudadanos se levantan un lunes en la mañana antes que el sol aparezca en el horizonte, con la alegría de hacerlo para cumplir disciplinadamente la tarea destinada para poder sobrevivir? La disciplina humana es curiosa cuando de sobrevivir se trata más que por otras motivaciones mas libres y profundas. Aquella sobrevivencia igual es "sobre-permanencia" social, para ser parte de un engranaje supuestamente productivo y no ser identificado como un elemento que debe dejarse de lado.  Siento frio. Aquel sueño extraño finalizó en es  bloqueos mortales en los que simplemente no puede haber una conclusión, o mas bien la hay, y es que al final no pasó nada y se esta peor que al principio: con acciones, desgastes, esperanzas sin ninguna consecuencia o resultado que pueda valorizarse en más que en aprendizajes. Sin embargo, lo más curioso no fue aquel final ni el despertarme voluntariamente antes que el despertador sonara en un lunes como este, sino que apareciera ella. ¿Por qué? Ella podría ser esa consecuencia buena o mala pero al fin y al cabo una. Y aunque en un papel no determinante en ese sueño, su presencia y su partida le podrían dar un significado suficiente para pasar a otra cosa. Al fin de cuentas es lunes. 

El marginarse del sistema social humano, de la manera mas abrupta, causa frio, hambre y una muerte lenta. Quizás en algunos casos, esa marginalidad por algún tiempo puede considerarse romántica, pero al final, los seres humanos son agrupaciones sociales. Sin embargo, hay quienes mentalmente (o espiritualmente tomándolo en un sentido), son observadores y logran no estar dentro de ese mecanísmo de lucro y beneficio constante. No necesariamente artistas, ni mucho menos humanos piadosos y creyentes. El beneficio esperado los lleva a fingir, pero aquellos observadores tienen la posibilidad de moverse desde las ideas y no causar la atención de nadie, ni para ser dejado de lado o penalizado, ni para ser exaltado. Al menos no por los tomadores de decisiones y sus vecinos, pero si por otros, que siendo pocos, notan que son libres. El sabor de café lo invitaba aun segundo café. No habría una escritura en aquel cuaderno rojo, ni tampoco una lectura (en aquel libro que curiosamente igual tenía su tapa roja), pero si saborear el tiempo que podía robarle a un sistema que se había simplificado, tras años y años de intentar descifrarlo, y que simplemente con sus años, había recibido el aprendizaje definitivo tras los sucesos que se repetían ciclícamente. Y podría decirse que cínicamente. Pero eso no le causa ningún tipo de pesimísmo, al contrario, el descifrarlo le daba libertad y cierta tranquilidad pues sabía que debería hacer o aparentar hacer. La apariencia, le daba la posibilidad de mostrar un supuesto deber ante un sistema vigilante. 

Entonces, las ambiciones ciudadanas son enmarcadas sin duda,  y los logros (legales o ilegales) se ubican dentro de un ambiente aceptado, soportado.  ¿Y aquellas que de alguna manera, generan una disrupción en la humanidad misma? En realidad (sin el tal vez), hacen pensar que la humanidad supera la ciudadanía, y da un poco de optimismo en medio de la regularidad de la civilización.  Una estabilidad garantizada y monetizada.  El segundo café estaba preparándose mientras los minutos robados a la jornada permitían los trazos en aquel lienzo. Hacía frio, no tanto como en aquel ático en Paris que extrañaba a pesar de la riqueza y los espacios que tenía ahora, pero que al menos, tendría una musa de verdad, después de hacerle el amor, sin pagarle, inspirándolo realmente y amaneciendo con él sin importar que fuera lunes o sábado en la mañana. El tenía (y ella, que amanecía con él) el privilegio de no pensar en horas, sino en años. Sin embargo, desde que regreso, cada vez era menos cierto eso y muchas de aquellas mujeres que ahora pintaba, no lo inspiraban en realidad. Algunas de ellas las había amado, pero su amor no era suficientemente apreciado, pues es una cuestión de precio y no de valor en estas ciudades. 

Sin embargo, la estabilidad no causa esa calma esperada para la mayoría sino una angustia constante. La de llegar al final de la jornada, al final de la semana (al fin), al final del mes y al final del año. Siempre ese final que da un suspiro, pero que segundos después, el aliento se guarda porque mañana hay que madrugar pues llega otro dia. Un dia de agradecimiento por seguir la voluntad de los otros mientras que las ambiciones se confunden con las necesidades. La madrugada, entonces, se dignifica (¿y qué es dignificar?) pues la voluntad social o sobrenatural en teoría ayuda. Le molestaba que lo tratará como cuando estaba perdidamente enamorado de ella. Si, por supuesto recordaba con aprecio aquel sentimiento fuerte de adolescencia, pero él, a pesar de lo que atesora en su corazón respecto al amor y la amistad, había vivido decenas de años, amado, sentido, odiado igualmente y entendía que ella lo buscaba cada dos o tres años, aprovechándose (sin un quizás) de ese amor que sintió por ella para conseguir algo de dinero prestado. Sabía que él no se lo negaría, y pretendía usar algo de aquella seducción desgastada. Que él no respondía. Claro, en dos o tres años le pagaría, igualmente. En el caso de él, lo hacía por ese pasado y por la amistad que no tenían, pero que ella pretendía que tenían hoy en dia."

Bêtement

Salomé, Shaun Berke

"Ecouter la propre voix, la même qu'après des années contient des mots des sagesse acquis entre les expériences et les rêves: la vie à la fin, la vie qu'est mouvement et calme. Mais la sagesse écouté n'est pas suivi, et l'hasard ou l'espoir font que malgré la voix reconnue et intime, on n'écoute pas parce que l'erreur garantie la rébellion contre le destin. Bien que le fait très claire qu'avec cela les conséquences sont laisses à la volonté des autres.  Reconnaître la sagesse et l'ignorer est une décision qui libère bêtement les humaines. Salomé le regarde. Elle reste tombé sur la lit après recevoir sur sa poitrine au-delà de sa sueur d'homme-enfant. Elle, femme, à décidé de pas avoir des peurs avec lui et aussi de le donner la sureté que lui sans le dire, juste avec la manière comme lui regarde-elle, unique, nue, exclusive, sans comparaison ni punition. Son corps et se yeux, pas de voix pour le dire qu'a de angoisse sinon que cette après midi, tout les deux, eux ils arrivent à être bêtement en liberté.  Lui, il l'aime trop et malheureusement, Il l'aimera plus tard quand elle l'aura abandonné. Amour? - Elle le dit avant de signaler avec ses doigts comme un pistolet- je te tue. Elle finis sa phrase sans rire, lui non plus. Mais les deux s'approchent et ses lèvres se cherchent et recommencent en faire l'amour, pas uniquement de baiser avant le vrai hiver. 

Il est simple et doloreux rester entre les ilussions et la naïvité. L'innocence est consideré comme une vertu et la conaissance et observation comme des dangers pour garantir la méfiance. La conscience comme capacité d'entendre l'information pour prendre des décisions ne permet pas l'ordre et sur tout, une status quo qui garantie la tranquilité des uns par la désesperation des autres, d'une majorité en réalité. Mais réfléchir complique les choses alors que plus là de pas écouter la petit voix intèreiur, il est mieux de pas écouter rien sauf la propaganda déguisée de communication. Etre touché ou lié n'est pas être informé. Il était jaloux de S. quand il a vu ces merveilleuses toiles de tous ses amants, réels ou imaginaires, mais pas pour son talent, sinon parce que lui était libre de le faire, sans peur qu'une d'elles le poursuivra en justice par dépit ou par argent. Chaqu'une des elles savent qu'elles sont immortelles et que jamais les laissera d'aimer, et plus, son amour est concrete sur la toile. Pour elles, se reconnaître, savoir que son corps est là, pas pour partager sa nudité comme un trophée sinon comme le moment un moment d'une merveilleuse histoire où les humaines peuvent sentir qu'ont des âmes et que la mort fait partie de la vie... mais lui, il n'y pas le droit à partager le moment, sinon de sentir tristesse à se souvenir d'elle et rester seul. Muet avec peur. 

Dans l'intime, l'espoir donne les raisons pour laisser que la volonté des autres partagent la joie et la peur, plusieurs fois. En silence, sans essayer des convaincre, seuelement avec le sentiment de certitude (normalement à tôrt) que l'autre reconnait les actions et les intentions. Et on reste seuls, parce que l'hasard dans ces cas, il n'y a rien a voir avec le raisonable. Il n'est pas une question dêtre naîve mais si, romantique. Et la liberté arrive aux romantiques, dans les histoires humaines, juste quelques moments avant de la desperation et la mort. Trois choses devraint arriver - leur dit-il tandis que les autres l'observent attentivement, toujours avec le verre de bière à la main- mais ce n'est pas la peine de le dire ce soir. Les autres, entre déception et découragement, exprimaient un bahh général et longue, et après le coup de bière obligatoire et necessaire, ils plaisantaient sur lui, qui les concentrait ce soir-là. Lui, Il riait quand même, mais son amertume intérieure ne pouvait pas en finir avec chaque verre. Pour quoi trois et pas une chose, pourquoi pas six? Il savait depuis des longues nuits que jamais elle jamais le repondera une lettre, malgré les dezenies que l'a envoyé, que jamais elle lui dira qu'elle l'aime et que jamais le cherchera et pire après des années. Jamais.  Alors, il vaut mieux attendre qu'un autre amour apparaisse, pour oublier le précédent. Il se dissait, que il a quitté sa fierté, mais elle ne quittera jamais son arrogance. Mais c'était aussi juste vrai, elle ne l'aimait pas. 

Partager ou construire une volonté permettre de definir mieux à un humaine qu'à un être vivant que attendre le déstin et l'ordre. Reconnaître, en silence, les faits et l'information pour prendre la decision qu'a des consequences et responsabilités, et que malgré tout, donne une sorte de liberté. Pas une liberté formale parce que même une principle, humain, il est très compliqué de l'unifier ou concrétiser. Le problème est la responsabilité qui se confond avec la culpabilité et enchaine à ce qui à défié vraiement le destin. C'est pourquoi il y a ceux qui renoncent à leur propre volonté. Il s'est réveillé fatigué d'être allé se coucher et s'être levé en pensant à elle. Aussi, lui se sentait très créve d'essayer une sorte de réponse ou de chance. Malgré les voyages, les plannings constants et les tâches d'urgence. Alors à commencer à l'écrire dans un carnet de voyages que jamais elle va à recevoir. Entre poèmes et lettres finalement à trouve une manière de se libèrer et d'arriver à s'endormir avec plaisir. Une nuit, les écrits ont commencé à être sur une autre femme, une autre vie, une autre elle."

A Decision

"XXI century, and without falling into arrogance, it is tough to distinguish between stupidity and ignorance. However, it is possible to understand when it is a decision and not destiny, taken knowingly and motivated by ambitions with consequences expected and hoped. A decision that sometimes hurts when reason does not seem enough to understand that nothing could have been done. Nothing, however the wisdom, empathy, and kindness. Despite friendship and love. In the arrogance, intimate, some humans suffer for simply being victims of the decisions of others, and they, weak, must understand without the possibility of shouting, even. If they do, all the blame will fall on them, so in their wisdom, they have the loneliness and the readings of all the centuries ago. He had decided to open a beer rather than go ahead with something more robust that night. He knew that this impossibility of breaking with that past was what had him contained in a decision, without being able to be free and escape forever and, yes, to fall in love and love again. He kept his promises, he loved, he was wrong, and he fell and got up, but he was tired of doing it alone. How many times have you not picked someone up in the past? However, it seemed he deserved nothing but the anguish and none of the battles (not one) for him. Yes, it was a decision. But each of the others did not depend on him: not even when he was deceived and betrayed. Not when he was abandoned and hurt. Not even when he was left alone. And he knew it. It wasn't up to him, but time passed, and he hated making a mistake. To have been so fragile and gullible. After much trying, he discovered that he did not inspire or influence. Instead, those who had greed betrayed him if they deserved all the fights and praise. The beer refreshed that ardor in his mouth and made a cocktail of extraordinary bitterness. It refreshed him amid that end-time heat. He wasn't crying. He smiled because tomorrow, he would leave again for another quest. And far away, absent, he could bear oblivion much better and had hope. In another story, other loves and friendships.

Greed cannot be justified by inequality and necessity. Neither does maintain privileges. Although it may be reasonable, it is about humanity and life. And that avarice destroys both. Nevertheless, in their apathy, some justify their silence or the convenient non-intervention and hush towards the injustices of others. Don't meddle, even if you're still affected. Why, then, for that reason, do those who have been offended feel bad? A last glass of whisky and they had both decided to stop talking and end that conversation. A simple bar on Sunday, a hot night, and the bartender sloth attending that they go, finally. The discussion, one more time, was dull. However, there was not enough relief because C. did not want to say anything to M., whom he made fun of. He simply allowed the desire to be above any friendship and feeling. Of course, the offender would be victorious as he would get what he had, even though he claimed that C had conspired against his happiness when his wife exposed everything. C, innocent and stupid, trusted him. It is complicated to separate innocence from stupidity in these lands.

Reason and passion. Domination over what humans call will (even social), but ultimately, the action generated by the decision is what classifies that rationality or passion. In the strange days of these last two centuries, the separation between one and the other is diffuse, very much so, and the problem is that despite the knowledge decisions could be dangerous and also the known consequences, they are still taken. It is understandable why men leave their (theoretical) will to the gods when the obvious results (in practice) pass. I knew I needed her to be free, but I didn't know how to find her. - he said it out loud as he watched the stars from his window. - Where are you? When? He looked for her many times in the stars as if following old legends. But time passed, and sometimes he even thought that he had already found her and that she would return at this moment when he felt terribly falling. Old legends and the same promise. 

The decision that defines the tiny human will. And it is small because it still thinks it depends on gods and chance. Not everyone has the clout to make it outstanding, and everyone (sometimes) achieves some greatness. Together, as mankind and not as a civilization. And in intimacy, it can be decided and committed to expand the mind and affect what is conceptualized as spirit. Above all, observing the decision of the other. That song was perfect for arriving at eleven o'clock at night this Sunday. For an instant, he stopped tormenting her decisions and smiled. He felt free. Tired, but free. The nights had turned into years, and that hurt him more than what happened and what was never said after what happened. November at last -he said to himself as he packed his suitcase. The good thing is that he would leave, and he wouldn't have to think about enduring, from the stillness of his den, the decisions of others. Her decision."